Shells
by vylentcrymz
Summary: Cristina and Burke get into another argument over his hand.


**Disclaimer:** None of this belongs to me, no matter how much I wish it would.

**Notes:** This was written for someone on Livejournal as a Christmas present. It's my first ever Grey's Anatomy fic so be gentle with me. I used a different sort of style for this; I think the beginning and end might be a little abrupt but I kind of like it like this. Timeline is just after the name erasing event in s3.

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"Your hand is fine," she says, over and over again; a mantra created to expel the fear and denial that crush her lungs and force her breath out in shudders. She ignores the twitch in his fingers at her words, the pained expression on his face as he watches her with sad, dark eyes. Always the same sad, dark eyes, like some little kid who just found out their puppy was crushed by a lorry. She hates it. She hates him, _him_, for being so fucking weak and forcing her to be so strong, so overprotective.

It's times like these when she's glad the small bundle of life that had grown in her stomach without her knowing was killed before she had a chance to suffocate it with stunts like this. Her hard shell would be fractured by the baby and she'd be demoted into one of those ridiculously stupid worrying mother's she enjoyed ridiculing for their saccharine sweet ways.

"My hand is not fine." He holds it up, presenting it in all its damaged glory. "Does this look fine to you? No. Because it isn't fine. It hasn't been fine for a very long time, Cristina, and the longer it isn't fine, the harder my career is going to be to keep up with. You will not be in all my surgeries. You will not erase names from the board. And my hand will twitch and shake and shudder and kill the very people I go to work with the intention of saving."

"Your hand is fine," she repeats and her heart beats faster when his eyes darken and he starts towards her. She steps back, tries to get away, but he's too fast and too angry and her back is against the wall and his face is level with hers.

"Let this go."

"No."

He growls. "Why not?"

"You're Preston Burke." Never once does she take her eyes away from his, almost as if willing him to believe her and be okay again.

"A name will not save my hand. Cristina I-" There's a long pause and then; "I can't do this anymore."

The effect is instantaneous; it feels like she's been punched in the stomach and slapped round the face all at the same time. Her mouth opens to pull out some insulting Cristina remark that she has stored up for moments like this but it's not there. All she hears is silence; all she sees is his face. His face. His goddamn beautiful face.

"I'm sorry."

The shell cracks and falls apart piece by piece. The more of herself that is bared to his words, the more her heart aches, and she stares at him in utter disbelief. "What?"

"My hand isn't fucking fine, Cristina!"

There's complete, dead, silence after his words and she feels taken aback by his cursing. It's rare to hear him curse; a stubbed toe or broken TV remote results in a 'damn' every now and again. But she's made him curse, she's pushed him to the very edge. In a way she's glad because maybe now he'll fall off and realise what a mopey dick he's being.

She pulls him towards her, crushes her lips against his, and moans when she feels him respond and press her harder into the wall. The air is electric. Her tongue slips past his lips to fight with his, hands working fast to rid him of his shirt as he works on her pants. The kiss is broken only when necessary to remove their clothes and stops completely as they catch their breath and watch each other with dark eyes.

Slowly she spreads her legs a little and takes hold of the hand he refuses to believe works anymore. He never once stops watching her as he touches her, teases her, drags low moans from the back of her throat and makes her shiver as white hot flashes pass through her body. His hand never shakes as he presses two fingers into her with no warning, lips finding hers to claim her shuddering gasp as his own.

It amazes him that his hand is so steady and he elongates every touch just to feel the calmness in his hand, the lack of that goddamn twitching. She responds to this with moans and gasps of pleasure, her eyes shutting and her head falling back against the wall at the slow torture he puts her through.

"Please," she begs, her hand holding his shoulder in a death grip.

His thumb manipulates her clit until she's crying out his name, hands desperately sliding along his skin in an attempt to hold onto him as her legs give way and body falls into his. He wraps his arm around her to keep her steady, lips brushing her forehead, and silence descends upon them as she comes down from her high.

"Your hand." It's a breathless whisper against his skin but he catches it and holds her tighter.

"I know," he whispers back. "It was fine."

END.


End file.
